"I don't think I can do any good if I stay here," said Doctor Bolter to
himself. "I've done everything I could think of, and I am ready to own
that it is very terrible; but a month has gone by now, and a doctor who
is so used to facing death and seeing people die does not--cannot feel
it as others do.
"That is, of course, when a man--his brother-in-law--is dead; but I
don't even know that poor Arthur Rosebury is dead, and as we say, while
there's life there's hope.
"Humph! How stupid of me! I don't know that there is life, so how can
there be hope?"
Doctor Bolter was on his way back home after a professional round
amongst his patients. His eyes were fixed upon the ground, and every
now and then, as he walked slowly on in the heat, he paused to examine
some fly or ant that crossed his path, or settled upon the bamboo
railings of a garden.
"Good morning, doctor," said a pleasant voice, that made him start from
the contemplation of a spider to a far more agreeable sight--that of the
face of Grey Stuart, who looked up at him in a weary, appealing way.
"Ah, my little rosebud," he said, smiling. "Tut! I had forgotten. Why
Grey, my child, you don't look well. Hah! this won't do," he continued,
letting his fingers slip from her hand to her wrist. "Bit feverish, my
dear. Grey, my child, you're fretting about Helen Perowne."
"It is so terrible, this suspense, doctor," she said, pleadingly.
"Yes, my dear, it is very terrible; but keep that sunshade up; the sun
is very powerful this morning."
Grey raised her creamy-white sunshade that she had allowed to hang by
her side, and as the doctor finished counting the throbs of her pulse,
he drew her hand through his arm, patted it into position and then
walked slowly on by her side.
"Nature says, my dear, that we must not fret and worry ourselves,
because if we do we shall be ill."
"Oh, yes, doctor," sighed Grey, with a pitiful look in her soft eyes,
"but this passing away of day after day is dreadful. What are we to
do?"
"Wait, my dear, wait."
"Wait!" cried Grey, whose eyes flashed for a moment. "Oh, if I were a
man, I think I would find some means of discovering what has become of
our friends."
"Well, my little maiden, you are not a man, and are not likely to be,"
said the doctor, smiling; "but no doubt your advice may be good, though
your action might be weak. Now, then, tell me--what would you do if you
were a man?"
"I would send out parties to search," cried Grey, indignantly. "Who
knows where our poor friends may be!"
"Ah, who knows, my dear inconsiderate little friend?" said the doctor,
quietly. "Now, don't you know that for nearly a month past Harley has
had, not parties, but single men--natives--out in search of information
about our friends?"
"No," said Grey, "I did not know that."
"No, you did not know that, my dear, but he has, and without the
slightest success, although he has promised a heavy reward for any
valuable information."
"It is very good of Mr Harley, and I beg his pardon," sighed Grey.
"And I take upon myself to say that the pardon is granted," said the
doctor. "And now, my dear, I suppose you think that this is not enough,
but that we--I mean Harley--ought to send out soldiers?"
"Yes, I have thought so," said Grey, hesitatingly.
"Hah! yes, I suppose so; but it has never occurred to you, my dear, I
daresay, that in this jungle-covered country, where the rivers are the
only roads, the passage of soldiers, with the stores they require, is a
terribly difficult affair."
"I fear it would be," said Grey; "but the case is so urgent, doctor."
"Terribly urgent, my dear; but like some of the urgent cases with which
I have to deal, I have to do all I can, and then leave the rest to
nature. Let us hope, my dear, that nature will work a cure for us here,
and that one of these days they will all turn up again alive and well."
"Oh, doctor, do you think so?" cried Grey, who was ready to cling to the
slightest straw of promise.
"I don't say that I think so," he replied, "I say I hope so."
Grey sighed.
"There, there, there, I forbid it," said the doctor, with assumed anger.
"We cannot have you fretting yourself ill, my dear, for we want your
help. My little wife could not get on at all without you to cheer and
comfort her; and I believe if it were not for you poor Perowne would go
distraught. Then there's your father, who looks upon you as the one
object of his life; and lastly, there's your doctor."
"You, dear Doctor Bolter," said Grey, smiling in his face.
"Yes; that is the person I mean, my dear. Do you want to disgrace him?"
"Disgrace you, doctor?" said Grey, wonderingly.
"Yes, by turning weak and delicate and ill after all I have done to keep
you sound and well. No, Grey Stuart, my dear; there are some people in
this busy world of ours who must never break down, never want rest, and
never be ill in any shape; those people are doctors like me--and clever,
useful little women like you. Depend upon it, my dear, if you were to
turn poorly there would be a regular outcry upon the station, and
everyone would be finding out your value."
"But they used to do without me, doctor," said Grey, smiling.
"Exactly, my dear; but now that they have become used to the luxury of
your presence they will not do without it again. No, my dear; you must
not turn ill. Ergo, as Shakspere's clown says, you must not fret.
Let's hope, my dear, that all will come right yet."
"I will try and hope, doctor," said Grey, quietly, "and I will not
fret."
"That's right, little woman. Depend upon it, two such dashing fellows
as Chumbley and friend Hilton will not drop out of sight like stones
thrown down a well. They'll turn up again some day. Good-bye. Take
care of my little wifie: she's the only one I've got, you know," he
added, laughingly. "Going to see her now?"
"Yes, doctor."
"When is she going to leave Perowne?"
"He is not fit to leave at present," said Grey, shaking her head.
"Then I suppose we must stay," said the doctor, parting from Grey with
quite a parent's solicitude; and then he stood watching her as she went
beneath the shady trees.
"That little lassie is fretting about one of those chaps," said the
doctor; "I'll be bound she is. She wouldn't turn pale and red, and grow
thin and weak, because Helen Perowne has disappeared. I wonder whether
it's big Chumbley. Well, we shall see. Now about my projects."
He walked slowly homeward and entered the snug cottage-like place, which
was the very pattern of primness, and day by day grew more like to the
place where he had first set eyes upon his wife.
"Seems precious dull without the little woman," he muttered; "but I
suppose I mustn't grumble as she's away to do good to others."
He thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the room.
"Dear, dear me," he said, impatiently; "a man, especially a doctor,
can't go on bemoaning people for ever. Where would science be if he
did? Of course I'm very sorry about poor old Arthur, though after all
perhaps he'll turn up all right, with his vasculum full of new orchids.
Here's time galloping away, weeks and months and years, and I never get
a bit nearer to the solution of my problem. Here am I, as I may say,
right upon the very spot, and yet I do nothing whatever to prove that
this is the place to which King Solomon sent to find his gold, and apes,
and peacocks."
Dr Bolter took off his sun-hat, and rubbed his bald head in a
peculiarly vicious way, and then went on debating the question so as to
work himself up to the carrying out of the project which he had in view.
"Here's the case," he said. "My wife's out; there's nobody ill, for
I've polished off all that needs doing this morning, so when could there
be a better chance? I'll go, that I will."
But there came up, as if to oppose him, the recollection of the morning
after Mr Perowne's party, and he was obliged to ask himself how could
he go now?
"I don't care," he cried, angrily. "I have done all I could, and
thought of all I could, and I can do no more. Here's my wife out nearly
always now, so that she would not miss me, so I ought to go. I might
discover that this is the real site of Solomon's gold mines, and if so--
Phew, what a paper to read at the Royal Geographical!
"I'll go! My mind's made up. I'll go, that I will," he exclaimed; "and
somehow I seem to fancy that this time I shall make my great discovery.
Hah! yes; what a discovery! And that paper read before the Royal
Society--a paper on the discovery of the Ancient Ophir, by Dr Bolter,
F.R.S. Why, my name--our name I should say, for Mary's sake--would be
handed down to posterity."
Here the doctor gave his head another rub, as if to get rid of a
tiresome fly.
"I don't know about posterity," he muttered. "It wouldn't matter to me,
as I've no youngsters. Still it would be a fine discovery to make.
But--"
Here he had another vicious rub.
"Suppose in the meantime Helen Perowne and the rest of the party come
back!"